


i kissed you on the neck (and you got wet)

by cori_the_bloody



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Clarke, Angry Kissing, F/F, there's just a lot of anger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5918671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cori_the_bloody/pseuds/cori_the_bloody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke confronts Lexa late at night, but the encounter doesn't go like she planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i kissed you on the neck (and you got wet)

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters or the universe, just having fun with them.  
>  **Author's Note:** This unbeta'd short is my (late-I know the episode already aired) response to the knife scene/promo pictures. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> If you're feeling so inclined, come say hi or drop an ask over at my [tumblr](http://catty-words.tumblr.com/)!

As Clarke slinks along a moonlit hallway on her way to the Commander’s bedchamber—her every nerve humming with disciplined attention—she’s struck by how foreign she feels.

This isn’t home. This isn’t where she belongs.

(She’s made her choice, and she doesn’t belong anywhere anymore.)

She needs to escape. Regular baths have been a treat, but Clarke fears that if she lets herself linger too long she’ll lose everything she’s worked to make herself into.

She needs the ferocity of her fire-headed alter ego to get from one day to the next.

That’s why she stole the knife from the hunter’s arsenal, and that’s why she’s sneaking around in the wee hours of the night on a mission to take the Commander by surprise.

She can feel the bite of the knife blade against her hip and the pounding of her heart in her temples as she approaches the unguarded entrance to the room.

Clarke hadn’t planned on finding her adversary awake, but when she carefully draws back the thick curtains to peer in, the first thing she notices is the Commander’s body curled in on itself and perched on a windowsill.

Except it’s not the Commander at all.

It’s Lexa…Lexa staring up at the night sky, her elbow propped on her knee as she braids and unbraids a thick strand of hair.

Clarke hesitates, her heart leaping up into her throat as she watches Lexa’s slender fingers nimbly construct and then deconstruct plaits. There’s a practiced grace to the movement, and Clarke is mesmerized.

She looks so young, so soft, that Clarke almost turns back.

But then she remembers what she’d be willingly going back to—remembers what the Commander’s responsible for—and her resolve hardens. She storms through the curtains.

“Clarke,” Lexa greets calmly (as if they have confrontations in her bedroom late, late at night all the time). “Have you reconsidered my offer?”

“I’d rather swallow a live fish whole.”

The Commander stands and Clarke sees that she’s wearing a long, loose, white shirt and little else.

Clarke’s pulse punches and throbs, and she feels a growl rumble in the depths of her chest.

“Then it’s also safe to assume you’re not here to socialize,” Lexa says dryly.

She doesn’t even bother to grace that with a verbal response. Instead, Clarke unsheathes her weapon and charges.

The Commander doesn’t move an inch in the face of Clarke’s attack. She barely even flinches. The only evidence she feels the impact at all is the flutter of her eyelashes and the hard gulp that jerks the knife in Clarke’s hand.

“I see,” Lexa says, her voice even.

Clarke lets out a quiet, pained cry and applies enough pressure to open skin. Adrenaline beats against her fingertips as they grip the handle of the weapon, and she wills herself to _do it, do it, **do it**_.

With a faint sigh, Lexa pushes infinitesimally harder against the blade: an invitation.

One that Clarke needs to take…but, instead of finishing what she’s started, she lets her gaze flutter up to meet Lexa’s.

Her eyes are intense, full of understanding and self-hatred. Clarke gives a frustrated huff.

It’s not fair that this person, of all the people, would be the biggest loss, the one she’d feel most profoundly. It’s not fair Lexa already colors so much of Clarke’s heart; she’s etched there in permanent marker whether Clarke wants her or not.

With a snarl, Clarke drops the knife, grabs a fistful of hair, and smashes her lips rapturously against Lexa’s.

Lexa is taken aback and lets herself be dragged along by Clarke’s aggressive energy. She lets Clarke pull her hair, suck on her lower lip. She catches Clarke’s anguished moans on the back of her tongue and hesitantly reaches out to touch Clarke’s cheek.

But it’s clear that Clarke’s not interested in such tender gestures. She grips Lexa’s hips in both hands, hard enough to bruise, and drives her back toward the bed. She all but throws Lexa on top of the covers and slides her body up the length of the Commander’s.

Straddling Lexa’s waist, Clarke sizes her face and continues their frantic kiss, all probing tongue and gnashing teeth.

When her head starts to swim from the endorphin-laden lack of oxygen, Clarke licks and nips her way from Lexa’s earlobe to the curve of her chin. The Commander’s panting under her and Clarke feels a cold-sweat erect goosebumps across the length of her back.

“Clarke,” Lexa starts, but whatever she’d been about to say is lost in the ignition of a moan. Clarke’s sloppily kissed her way to the delicate contour where Lexa’s neck flows into her shoulder, pinching skin between her teeth hard enough to leave reddish-black graffiti that screams ‘ _I’ve been here. This flesh is mine_.’

It’s when Clarke squeezes Lexa’s breasts, her thumbs rolling harshly over the pebbled nipples, that Lexa finds her resolve again.

“No,” she says, powerful and commanding, as she forces Clarke into a sitting position. With a grunt of annoyance, Clarke tries to weasel her way back over top of Lexa, but the Commander places a firm hand on her chest. “Not like this. I don’t want…these are memories I wish to create with you, Clarke, but I don’t want them to be soaked in anger and resentment.”

“Well you don’t get a choice, okay? Not after everything that’s happened. You either get me angry or not at all.”

Lexa sits up straighter and Clarke can practically feel the leader persona click into place. “Then I will not have you at all.”

Clarke’s nostrils flare and she fists a fur blanket in her hand, squeezing till her knuckles feel hot with the effort. “Fuck you!” she spits out and then tries to scramble off the bed.

Lexa catches her by the shoulders and raises her eyebrows as if to beg for Clarke’s understanding. “It’s not that I wouldn’t be open to…I’d simply like your forgiveness before we…”

Clarke glares, unforgiving, so Lexa changes course, slowly reaching out to grasp two of Clarke’s fingers in her fist. Never breaking eye contact, the Commander places Clarke’s fingertips on a pronounced vein in her neck.

Lexa’s heart is beating out a very clear message: _I want, I want, I want_.

“Even in matters such as this, I must remain levelheaded.”

The emotional whiplash is just too much for Clarke. She nods once and then pulls her hand free from Lexa’s.

“Right. Always the Grounder queen or general or whatever you are. Never just a human being.”

“Clarke,” Lexa says, her voice cracking.

“No, let’s not. I can’t believe I…and you…I just have to go.”

Clarke shoves herself off the bed and runs from the room.

She doesn’t belong here, but she’s got to accept the fact that she can’t leave any time soon. Even though it’s not home, a piece of her heart is trapped in Polis.


End file.
